


the merry month of may

by theadventuresof



Category: Naruto
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life, and a snail, kestrels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 11:16:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14567868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theadventuresof/pseuds/theadventuresof
Summary: For the hokage and his husband, it's a great time to be alive.





	the merry month of may

**Author's Note:**

> or, as i like to call it, gay

1.

The light is soft and blue when Hashirama wakes up, and he knows it’s too early to get out of bed. His arm is asleep, and he gingerly tugs it out from underneath Madara’s chest. All that’s visible of Madara is his long tangled hair and, upon closer inspection, his left eye, squeezed almost shut into a tiny sleepy sliver. “Hmm,” he says weakly, “nnh.” The eye slams completely shut. He wiggles on top of Hashirama—the bed creaks, in one long, drawn-out noise—and then he winds his arms around Hashirama’s torso, smiling in his sleep.

* * *

2.

When Madara wakes up again, his nemaki has come undone, and Hashirama is resting his head on Madara’s abdomen, tracing small circles onto his bare skin with two warm fingers.

“What time is it?” Madara says. His eyes are watering from tiredness.

Hashirama kisses his hip. “Seven.”

Madara hums. “Too early,” he says. The light from outside seems brighter than normal for such an early hour. Hashirama’s magnolia has bloomed, Madara realizes, and the sunlight is turning the pink blossoms a brilliant, dazzling white.

“Not too early for this, I hope,” Hashirama murmurs. His mouth moves lower, towards Madara’s pubic bone, and Madara shudders, pulling his nemaki off and tossing it aside. He sinks back into the pillows contentedly, giving a delighted moan as Hashirama’s lips find their target.

* * *

3.

“Good morning,” Hashirama says several hours later, laughter in his voice. “Again.”

Madara makes a noncommittal whine in the back of his throat and rolls over with difficulty. The sun is up properly now, but the bed is just as comfortable as ever—even more so, perhaps, in the aftermath of their previous activities. It’s going to be a very warm day, Madara thinks, as Hashirama pulls back his side of the covers and stands up from the bed. Madara growls and tugs the nearest blanket back up to his chin. He almost immediately regrets it. It’s a little too warm already.

“Lots to do today,” Hashirama says cheerfully, pulling on his gaudiest striped hakama. His necklace bounces against his chest, sparkling in the light from the window.

Madara curls up, if possible, even tighter. “Just let me sleep in some more.”

Hashirama smiles fondly. “All right,” he says. “If you come to the festival this weekend.”

Madara snorts. “Fine,” he says. “As long as you don’t wander off and leave me to fend off your cousins all by myself. How many people are we expecting?”

“Not a huge crowd,” Hashirama says. “It’s more of a gathering than a festival. We’re cutting up a watermelon and drinking cocktails.”

Madara smiles at that. “Seed-spitting contest?” he says.

“Naturally.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Hashirama bends and kisses his forehead. “I know. Sleep well, darling. You know where to find me.”

* * *

4.

Just before noon, Madara struts down the main village road as if it’s a catwalk. The little coffee shop between the academy and the florist has been giving him free coffee—sweet, and with extra creamer, the way he likes it—for a while now, ever since the day he released a trapped and confused hummingbird which had flown in through the back window. Madara is dealing with slightly larger birds today, though, and he drinks his scalding coffee as quickly as he can. “I can’t stay long,” he says. “I’ve got to work on the nest boxes today.” Which is true; he’s heard the kestrel pair chattering at the top of the meadow nearly every day for the past week, and he knows they’ll be looking for a good place to live soon. Madara only wants the best for this year’s batch of fledglings.

“My sister loves your birds,” the barista tells him as he finishes his coffee. “She said she got to touch one, the day you did the demonstration at the academy. She hasn’t stopped talking about it since.”

Madara smiles. “I’m glad my birds left such a strong impression,” he says.

“She’s turning seven soon,” the barista says thoughtfully. “Do you do birthday parties, by any chance?”

* * *

5.

Hashirama regrets wearing his dressiest sandals about thirty minutes into the workday, when a flustered Yamanaka sprints into the office with the news that a horde of large, poisonous snails are wreaking havoc on the village’s largest cabbage patch. Truthfully, back when he first became the Hokage, he had not imagined that his everyday obligations would involve anything like this.

* * *

6.

Beyond the third overgrown nest box, the strawberries are baking in their field. They’re getting ripe; the rain and the recent warm weather has done them good. Madara activates his Susanoo, carefully adjusts its height so that he can reach the top of the box, and eases the side panel open in order to clean out the fuzz and straw that its previous owner—a sparrow, probably, judging by the scraps of newspaper mixed in with the grass—has left. Madara trims the weeds at the base of the pole, then strips off his gloves, reaches down between the strawberry plants, and picks the reddest one he can find. It tastes just like summer. He kicks off his sandals, wanting to feel the dirt under his feet properly.

Madara collects about fifty strawberries—thirty, once he’s done eating them—and gathers the ends of his mantle into a makeshift pouch in which to store them until he can put them in a proper basket. He wanders for a while—the last nest box is far off, and he could probably go back to the village and drop off the fruit while he’s still down in the meadow—but he might as well go now, since he’s out…

He wanders for a little while longer. There’s a familiar figure in the distance.

“Madara!” Hashirama calls from beneath a tall ginkgo tree. Madara brushes a ladybug off of his collar and walks to him. Hashirama is sitting cross-legged in the shade of a wide red-and-white umbrella with a large pumpkin in his lap. No, not a pumpkin—it’s a—

“Is—” Madara holds back laughter. “Is that a snail?”

Hashirama grins up at him. The snail is a brilliant, poisonous shade of orange, about the length of a cat, with long, quivering antennae poking out of its head. “I’m rehabilitating this one,” he says. “I think it must have received some, um, blunt force trauma in all the confusion. I healed the side of its shell, but it doesn’t seem ready to leave.”

Madara squints at him. “Why are your arms steaming like that?”

“Oh,” Hashirama laughs, “its slime is mildly corrosive. It’s all right. It can’t hurt me. Are those strawberries? May I?”

Madara opens his mantle. Hashirama reaches up, selects the largest strawberry he can find, and holds it cautiously in front of the snail’s front end. “I’m so sorry about earlier,” he coos at it, his lower lip quivering slightly. “I didn’t mean to step on you, my dear. I hope you can forgive me.” Very slowly, the snail oozes closer until the folds of its mouth engulf the strawberry entirely.

“I take it you had an eventful morning,” Madara says.

Hashirama sighs. His head droops slightly. “I’ve got three grant proposals due tomorrow at noon,” he says. “Not even sure what one of them is for. And the sink across from the reception desk is still making that weird noise. We’ll just have to tell Suna not to use it, if it’s not fixed by next week.”

Madara laughs. “Have Tobirama spritz them with pond water instead,” he says. “Anyway—I can’t stay. I have one more nest box to check up on.”

Hashirama’s eyes light up. “Oh!” he says, and gently slides the snail off his lap and into the grass as he stands up. “I can come with you. I’m not due back at the office until two. Here.” He refastens his haori, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, and weaves a small wooden basket out of thin air.

“Ah,” says Madara, and deposits the strawberries into it. Their fingers brush together. “I can carry it,” Madara says, reaching for the handle.

Hashirama laughs. “You’ll just eat them all,” he says as they begin to walk. “Better let me hold onto it.”

* * *

7.

The kestrel is hunched over on Madara’s gloved hand, beak snapping closed on sinew. “You can say hello,” Madara says. As if she understands him, she turns around and looks over her shoulder with a pout not unlike Hashirama’s own.

Hashirama is delighted. He leans in and watches her eat, marveling at her little black beady eyes and her tiny ruffling feathers and the soft warmth of her thin body. She flexes her wings, showing off their dappled undersides—the clifftop light catches her feathers from behind and she’s glowing like a leaf in the afternoon sun.

“Do you want to feed her?” Madara says, but then a big winged shadow streaks across the ground and Madara looks like he’s lost his train of thought entirely. He squints up into the sky with one hand shielding his forehead. “Look,” he murmurs.

An enormous hawk wheels by overhead, the _snap-snap-snap_ of its wings audible even down here on the cliff. Hashirama can’t tell what kind it is; it’s almost completely backlit and he was never good at telling all of the birds of prey apart—he doesn’t have Madara’s eye for it—but its pointed wings and curved tail are very, very beautiful. Dangerous, but beautiful.

“Ah,” Madara whispers, breathless. Hashirama loves how excited he looks, how his eyes light up as he watches the enormous hawk’s progress through the sky. The kestrel, sensing that perhaps she is outmatched, quietly takes off into the woods behind them. Madara looks out over the village, a deep sort of pride in his eyes.

Hashirama starts. Madara’s hand is reaching towards his own; he laces their fingers together and curls his into Hashirama’s palm, running his thumb down the side of Hashirama’s hand. “I’ve always wanted to do this,” he says quietly.

Hashirama blinks. “Do what?”

“Kiss you up here,” Madara says. Hashirama’s heart races. He feels lightheaded and giddy, as if he’s about to kiss Madara for the first time all over again. Madara leans closer, rests his forehead against Hashirama’s. He exhales, very softly.

The kiss might just be their best one yet.

* * *

8.

It rains hard after sunset, and Hashirama leaps up from the futon and runs to close the front windows. “Not again,” he cries out, when the rain abruptly ceases as soon as he’s locked the last window shut.

Madara laughs, not looking up from his scroll. “This is the third day in a row,” he says. Hashirama reluctantly opens the window again. The sudden downpour has cooled the air considerably, making the curtains flutter.

They’re both tired, and ready to curl up together, so they go to bed right after dinner. Madara climbs into Hashirama’s lap and runs his fingers through his hair.

A burst of cool air from the window sends papers scattering across the room. “I’ll take care of it,” Madara groans, and reluctantly slithers out of bed, bending to pick up the nearest pile. Hashirama eyes the curve of his hips appreciatively. He loves Madara’s legs, with all of their scars, and even the way his thighs and calves are covered in yellowing bruises from their latest spar— _no, leave them, I like them,_ Madara had said once they had finished.

“How about this,” Madara says as he slides back into bed.

“Are my papers in order?” Hashirama says. “It looks like they got shuffled around a bit.”

Madara’s sharingan spins into life. “Don’t change the subject,” he says. “I want to try something different tonight.”

Hashirama grins, his interest piqued. He runs his thumb down Madara’s jaw. “Oh?”

* * *

9.

That night it gets decidedly cold. It’s surprisingly pleasant; for the first time all week it’s not too hot to try to sleep without blankets. Madara, tossing and turning in his sleep as usual, kicks the blankets off anyway. Hashirama instantly forgives him, and scoots closer to him and throws one arm over his torso. _Someone_ has to keep him warm.


End file.
